The truth is: I hate indifference.
I hate the idea that someone can be too non-chalant or too cavalier to not care about the important things; to not give a damn about love. I can’t stand people who can’t admit to the one thing we all know is true: it all fucking matters.
The truth is: I’m a masochist.
I’m insane for feeling better when I’m sick, when I’m too tired, when I have an excuse to not talk to people who wouldn’t understand anyways. I’m crazy for thinking that I don’t need help, don’t want it, don’t deserve it. I’m scared of the possibility that when heartaches end, sometimes they can hit us again, at later times in life, with different people, with the same heart; I’m terrified of getting close to anyone, ever again.
The truth is: I’m addicted to falling in love.
I can’t go a day without the prospect of having someone out there who might, some day, give me butterflies, tell me that they love me, whisper comfort into my heart; someone who I could just lay in bed with, someone who might hold me with tenderness and care, someone who might make me fall in love, again; a person with beautiful eyes that I could spend the rest of my life looking into, because I wouldn’t want to see anything more.
The truth is: I hate myself for all these things, knowing that this kind of wisdom can only come from one thing; not experience, but the sober heartache of the aftermath.
I’d go out and stare at the stars in the night sky right now, but I can’t see them shining. I know there’s light, but it’s behind the clouds. And I can’t see it. Perhaps, I’d rather not.
The only truth is:
I see the best in others when I can’t see the best in myself.
I see the beauty in the hearts of others when I only see the darkness in my own.
And even though it’s breaking my heart, the truth is: I wouldn’t have it any other way.